


Joyeux Anniversaire

by Langerhan



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Baking, Birthday Cake, Birthday Fluff, Birthday Party, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Langerhan/pseuds/Langerhan
Summary: Stuck in lockdown and with nothing else to do, Crowley decides Aziraphale is owed a birthday party.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19
Collections: IK Shenanigans





	Joyeux Anniversaire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IdleLeaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/gifts).



> Happy birthday!

The earth was six thousand and five years, five months, two weeks and three hours old when Crowley decided Aziraphale needed to have a birthday party. 

There was nothing special about the date apart from every single special thing it marked the anniversary of. It was, for instance, the anniversary of the United States electing its first female mayor, and the day Sir Francis Drake had been knighted. It was the birthday of millions of spectacular humans, both alive and dead, who did spectacular, goodly things, like making clothes from scratch, taking care of abandoned kittens, and standing up for what was right and just when nobody else would. 

However, none of these things made it the correct date for Aziraphale's birthday. 

It was the correct date for Aziraphale's birthday because Crowley was bored. 

He'd tried pointing out – multiple times now – that lockdown didn't apply to occult beings, but Aziraphale had stayed firm. At least locked away in Crowley's flat they had enough entertainment to keep them going until the next apocalypse. He'd even managed to teleconference with a few mortals, although it obviously wasn't the same as being able to present temptation to them in person.

The teleconference was where he'd found the idea. Humans got to have birthdays; Aziraphale had been down here so long that he'd picked up multiple human habits, and surely he must have provided a date of birth for A Z Fell somewhere or other. Why, he was practically _owed_ a birthday party, to make up for all the ones Crowley had undoubtedly missed. 

The cake had been a right bugger to make, but there it stood: a Black Forest gateau far closer to Baden-Württemberg than any London baker would have been prepared to get, and with far more kirschwatter than should technically be present in something trying to pass itself off as solid. As its creator had made some assumptions about how such a cake should be decorated, it gleamed with black fondant and glacé cherries which wouldn't have looked out of place in a cocktail bar circa 1979, with the sparklers lighting their way there. 

“Can I come out yet?” Aziraphale asked from the bedroom. 

“No,” Crowley shouted back, “keep reading.” 

He'd managed to menace roughly half the plants into flowering, but there was a particularly stubborn tulip which didn't seem anywhere near scared enough. 

“Look,” Crowley growled at it, “today is a _very special day_ – because I said so, is why. And you're the angel's favourite, so you're not going to upset him, because I can tell you right now I will be _very bloody disappointed_ if you do, and you've been around long enough to know what happens to plants that disappoint me.”

“You said you'd be nice to them,” Aziraphale scolded. 

Crowley spun around. The table was decorated with gold ribbon but only half the balloons were up and he still hadn't done the crepe paper or the streamers. The presents were wrapped, but none of them were artfully arranged. Nothing looked anything like what Instagram had told him to make for a first birthday party. A bubble of panic burst where he was fairly sure a diaphragm ought to have been. 

“You said you'd stay in the bedroom!” 

“I finished my book!” 

“There were more books under the bed!” 

“This is all very lovely!” 

“That's – oh. Yeah. Well. It's not finished yet.” Crowley gestured vaguely at where various things were meant to be, although Aziraphale would have to use his imagination for what. 

“Well,” Aziraphale smiled like a bastard, “how about we celebrate now, and I can see the finished version next year?” 

Crowley had done his research. He was fairly sure that were he to throw all the various foodstuffs humans around the world thought he should throw in Aziraphale's face to celebrate his birthday, he'd end the celebration with a decent pancake batter. Punching him once for every year of his existence would leave him blue and purple all over (and would possibly need some sort of safe word). He didn't have any noodles and he wouldn't trust Aziraphale with a bat, but cake and song he could do. 

He stumbled over _joyeux anniversaire á Aziraphale_ just to watch the angel's nose wrinkle with a mixture of fondness at the effort and disgust at the French language. 

“Did you practise that?” 

“A little,” admitted Crowley. 

Aziraphale tried to blow out the sparklers. Before Crowley could decide whether to explain to him that they were purely decorative or to let him keep trying, they conveniently burnt themselves down. 

“It's a very evil cake,” Crowley warned before he handed over a slice. 

Aziraphale stuck his fork into it. Crowley watched as the sharp tang of cherries rolled into the sweetness of chocolate and as Aziraphale's eyes widened at the alcoholic burn. “That,” he gasped, “is certainly more wily than I was expecting. Water?” 

When Crowley returned with a glass (not speedily, of course, walking at a perfectly normal speed through his own flat) he was surprised to see Aziraphale polishing off the slice with gusto. 

“Ah. It grew on me,” he admitted sheepishly.

“You said it was evil – I got you water.” 

“ _You_ said it was evil. I said it was wily,” replied Aziraphale, his mouth pursed, “and as it turns out, I'm rather fond of wily things.” 

The tulip, with the sort of sense of the dramatic common to bulbs of its genus, chose that moment to bloom. 

“Happy birthday,” Crowley muttered against Aziraphale's tight lips after leaning forward and almost putting his hand in chocolate cake. “Here's to many happy returns.” 

Crowley would later admit than maybe it was for the best he hadn't finished decorating, considering what they then did on and to the table. Aziraphale would admit to nothing – but as the birthday angel, Crowley would never have asked him to.


End file.
